In the season the geese return,
the rich green season
when tall grass sways in the wind,
everything seems new again.
 
For many the lake takes too long to fill.
 
This lake was not created by God.
Neither was the attitude of a man
with a hangover and an empty wife.
His seven-year-old son
stands down by the shore
wearing only an inner tube
 
waiting for the water to rise.
 
The only thing that fills in him is sorrow,
and he knows his mother will call
when supper gets cold.
And he knows damn well
the only cure for a hangover
is a mean shot of whiskey
and an ice-cold beer.
 
The lake rises slowly this year.
 
The boy feels something moving
down below. And they say men
have no womb to speak of.